CltBERT  FRANKMI 


v 


TID'APA' 


"TID'APA" 

(What  Does  It  Matter?) 

BY 

GILBERT  FRANKAU 


NEW  YORK 

B.  W.   HUEBSCH 
MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


To  ONE  WHO  CRIED 


330950 


"Tid'apa 


I 


ft         .8  I  \ 

Do  you  know  our  churchyard  at  Aden;  lone  t&mbs 
•?.    on  a  sun-parched  plain — 

Tjfeeless ;  and   flowerless,    untended.    unkissed-  of 

%'-  i  *'  *  *'•' 

I    God'SjKindly  rain —  £• 

Fenced  ^quare  with  a  low,  green  railing,  les&the 

>•  jackal  filch  from  the  priest? 
Ay  you  drive  through  Cantonment  gateway,  !$fc 
^  welt!    Jt  is  all  the  East! 

•no     '  .     ,  •    r    '•  f-f  *?; 

TAere'^  on^  tombstone  in  Aden  churchyard,  more 

lone  than  its  lonely  mates, 
Wnereuftder — brown  paper  only  between  himVand 

.    Hell's  "blazing  gates — 
Lies  the  body  of  'John  James  Sanders.    Com'fner- 

cial.    Who  died  at  sea.' 
From  the  -Corner  House'  to  Malay  Street,  run^the 

trail  of  his  memory; 
From  the''Spotted  Dog,'  to  the  Yacht  Club,  there 

are  stories  of  'Whisky  Jim' — 
Men's  tales  of  fierce  sprees  and  deep  drinjung. 
»     And  yet,  if  they  mention  him, 


•f: 

1  ?'  » 


"Tid'apa" 

The  women,  the  loose-gowned  women,  foregath- 
ered at  tiffin-time, 

When  'The  Street'  shews  stripped  of  its  tinsel, 
like  an  over-painted  mime 

In  the  sickly  glare  of  the  noonday — when  the  beer 
gleams  amber-gold, 

And  the  charred  butts  hiss  in  the  saucers  where 
the  coffee-dregs  grow  cold — 

There  will  always  be  one  who  voices  the  verdict 
(they  see  so  clear, 

Our  outcasts)  "Ach,  Whisky  Jimmy,  he  was  gentle- 
man-born, my  dear." 


8 


§  II 

Like  ramparts  of  jade,  in  a  garden  sea-circled  of 

blues  and  of  greens — 
A  garden  all  frangipanni,  and  moonflowers,  and 

mangosteens 
Wine-red  under  lustrous  foliage  where  the  mating 

parrots  scream — 
Due  South  from  the  Great  Pagoda,  four  days  of  a 

favouring  steam, 

Rise  the  Ridges  of  Lallong  Island; — jade  ram- 
parts, that  beetle  down 
To  the  straight  white  roads,  and  the  palm-trees, 

and  the  beaches  of  Lallong  Town. 
Life's  lazy  for  us  in  Lallong:  we  are  few,  far  off, 

on  the  fringe 
Of  the  teeming  Eastern  markets;  but  ever  their 

trades  impinge 
On    the    sunbright,    seasonless    sequence    of    our 

ordered,  tropic  days : 
For,  westward  plying  or  eastward,  black-funnelled, 

the  liner  stays 
Her  course  in  our  red-buoyed  harbour;  and  ever 

the  mad-keen  men, 

9 


"Tid'apa" 

Released  from  the  blackened  hillsides,  from  the 

half-cleared  rubber-fen, 
From  the  red  alluvial  tin-bank  and  the  tali-ayer's 

flow, 
Drift  in  by  the  'kreta  sombong'  to  drink  at  the 

<M.  &  O.' 
Where  the  white  man  drinks,  there  are  women. 

Desire's  paid  captives,  they  come 
From  the  dreary  Polish  farm-land  or  the  packed 

Italian  slum, 
Weighed,  chosen,  and  shipped  like  cattle,  for  a  fate 

that  is  no  less  sure, 
In  the  lamplit  passion-shambles  where  the  white 

bawd  flaunts  her  lure. 
But  our  prices  are  low  in  Lallong,  low  even  for 

kine  as  these ; 

Cathayan  and  brown   Malayan  and  the  flower- 
decked  Japanese 
Join  issue  with  meat-fed  Europe:  "Come  here. 

Come  up  here,  dear,"  they  cry 
To  the  drunkly-waving  seaman  as  his  rickshaw- 
wheels  roll  by. 
So  you'll  find  but  love's  refuse  and  sweepings;— 

rouged  cheek  sliced  deep  where  the  blade 
Of  the  husband,  betrayed  too  often,  wiped  out  the 

charms  that  betrayed ; 
10 


"Tid'apa" 

Dull  eye,  red-rimmed  as  a  vulture's  with  the  wake- 
ful nights  and  the  wine; 

Shrunk  arm,  pocked,  pallid,  and  pitted  by  the 
needle's  anodyne ; — 

Drink-sodden  or  drug-sodden,  outraged,  or  cank- 
ered with  fouller  scourge, 

In  the  white  man's  own  'white'  houses  which  the 
white  man  dares  not  purge. 

Yet  when  Jimmy  was  liquor-crazy,  nor  the  proven 

risk  nor  the  dread 
Of    the    ten-fold    deadlier    peril — fears    known, 

friends  ruined,  or  dead — 
Could  hold  him  back  from  the  women.    And  that 

night,  ere  the  bar-boys  slept, 
He  had  shouted  for  pahit  and  for  stinger  till  the 

hot,  strong  bane  of  them  swept 
In  flame  to  each  brain-cell's  tinder.    Flesh  called, 

and  all  flesh  was  sweet, 
As  he  kicked  up  his  rickshaw-coolie,  and  steered 

him,  blind,  for  The  Street.' 
Past  the  sounds,  and  the  signs,  and  the  singing,  and 

the  high  verandah-glows, 
Was  it  Luck,  or  The  Larger  Purpose  which  led 

him  to  Madame  Rose? 


ii 


(t 


Tid'apa 


As    the   kites   watch,   waited   die   Alte.     Thick- 
lidded,  her  filmed  eyes  blinked; 

She  stiffened,  her  plumage  ruffled;  she  was  up  ere 
the  stair-bell  clinked, 

"Du  Glarchen!"  she  summoned.     Languid,  indif- 
ferent, old  to  the  game, 

Raised  hands  smoothing  tresses  disordered,   the 
sloven  Austrian  came. 

"Beer:  lashings  of  beer."     How  it  bubbled;  how 
the  client  rocked  as  he  quaffed. 

"Here's  cheero,  old  thing,"  he  hiccoughed;  "here's 
cheero."    Die  Alte  laughed. 

"Drunk — thirty  dollars — you  get  it!"  she  whis- 
pered.    They  were  alone. 

"Come  'n  along,"  his  thick  voice  slobbered  to  the 
wheeze  of  the  gramophone 

"You  vill  stay  mit  me,  von't  you,  liebchent"    (Lust 
jettisons  love-finesse, 

While  the  wine  yet  works  in  the  wooed  one.)     But 
ere  he  might  answer  'Yes,' 

To  a  patter  of  mounting  footsteps  and  a  mutter  of 
oath  from  Clare, 

The  chickstrings  trembled  and  parted    .    .    .    and 
Julie  was  there. 

French  Julie!  just  home  from  'the  pictures;'  pink 
chiffon  scarf  on  her  head; 
12 


"Tid'apa" 

Dark  eyes,  bright-clear  as  a  baby's ;  flushed  cheeks, 

as  a  schoolgirl's,  red 
With  the  pulse  of  unwonted  pleasure.     She  was 

pure  grisette;  yet  a  trace- 
So  soon! — of  the  man-made  hardness  was  stamped 

on  that  roguish  face. 
The  drunkard  eyed  her  in  wonder.    "Lord  love  us, 

whose  infant  is  this? 
A  French  kid.     Here?     And  a  new  one!     O 

darling,  give  uncle  a  kiss. 
What's  that?    Ne  comprends  pas.    Eh  bien  done, 

viens  id  m' embrasser,  ma  mie." 
(Jim's   brand   was   a   seller   in    Saigon.)      Clare 

frowned,  and  rose  from  his  knee. 
"jWnifff/  dock  immer  die  besten  Kunden:"  hate 

snarled  in  the  guarded  voice: 
But  the  brothel-code  was  upon  her;  the  law  of  the 

client's  choice, 
Which  none  may  hinder  nor  question.     She  had 

lost.    It  was  Julie's  trick. 
Her  worn  shoes  scraped  on  the  matting  as  she 

sulked  through  the  rustling  chick. 


So  much  more  like  a  maid  than  a  harlot,  demure, 
unassuming,  petite — 

13 


"Tid'apa 


£t,  what  in  the  name  of  the  devil,  Brought 
to  Cinnabar  Street? 
H^jjjl  he  been  Afl//-sober,  some  subtle,  {some  rin- 

grained  instinct  of  right  ^:*  j     '  ?, 

W($ild  have  sounded  its  voiceless  message  ;  but  |he 

rjwholc  mad  man  was  alight 
Wr&i  the  passions  that  drink  had  ^ndled,  '  and 

fondling  fanned  to  a  fire. 
Anpyet,  even  on  drink-doped  senses,-£dazed  eyes, 

.'Jbeast-blank  with  desire, 
Sav?  naught  but  a  houri-vision,  white  arftis,  red  'lips, 

•^and  the  sheen  |;v 

Whtere  the  neck  curved  warm  to  the  |;reastlinev— 


:5«the  aura  of  things  unseen, 
A  ^earce-breathed,  flickering  soul-wave;  discocled 

«*i)ut  conscience-deep, 
Thnlled  weak;   as   a  whispered  warning, 

:j  heard  and  forgotten  in  sleep. 
So;(feak,  yet  for  Julie  —  a  respite! 

A  stranger's  voice,  through  the  haz^e, 
Hisf  own  voice  came  to  him.    Stumble?  ahd-da'rk- 

Hgfcfaess!    Sudden,  the  blaze 

Ofas-flares  !    Coolth  !  !    They  were  ^rtojf  in£.  ';*|t 
s  all  just  a  blurred  dream-ride;}  :.f 
loin-cloth,  dipping  and  rising  to  the  lope 
his  coolie's  stride  : 

* 


"Tid'apa" 

Wheels  whirring;  a  rush  of  faces;  and  the  girl  he 
clasped ;  and  the  gleam 

As  the  lights  spun  past  and  behind  them.  Gay 
dreams!  But  for  her — no  dream; 

Those  dank  hands  seeking  her,  clutching  and  fum- 
bling at  bosom  and  waist; 

Those  lips  that  mocked  at  her  struggles,  lips  bitter 
as  whisky  to  taste. 

How  she  loathed  these  English — the  drunkards! 

"Do  you  love  me?"     Piteous  guile, — 
Her  writhed  mouth  shrivelled  in  answer  to  the 

wan,  dumb  wraith  of  a  smile. 
"A  peach — but  an  iced  one.     Tid'apa,  he  liked 

them  cold,  till.    .    .    ."    The  wheels 
Stopped  dead.     They  were  back  at  Rose's.     He 

had  climbed  the  stairs  at  her  heels. 


Arms  pressed  on  the  sill, — deaf  and  blind  to  the 
eddying  pageant  below, — 

She  leaned  from  the  open  casement.     Mixed  oc- 
taves, the  ebb  and  the  flow 

Of  life  in  'the  lines,'  beat  upwards — boys  shouting, 
a  fragment  of  song, 
IS 


"Tid'apa" 

Click-scrape  of  dropped  shafts  on  the  sidewalk, 

weird  music,  plunk  of  a  gong, 
Strings  twanging,  lewd  laughter  of  women, 

"Faut  blen  nous  coucher,  ma  chere" 
...  Hardly  a  sound,  but  he  heard  it :  "Mon  Dieu, 

que  la  vie  est  amere." 
And  a  great  fear  fell  upon  Jimmy;  the  scarlet  of 

drink  went  gray; 
For  he  seemed  to  catch,  in  that  whisper,  the  cry  of 

a  soul  at  bay. 
'There  was  nothing  her  form  in  Lallong  .  .  but 

he  wasn't  going  to  stay — 
No,  not  for  millions  of  dollars.  .  Should  he  give 

his  reasons,  explain, 
Console,  or  try  to?  .  .  Quite  hopeless!     What 

was  the  reason?'    His  brain 
Refused.    'Still — he  mustn't  stop  there.    Best  slip 

away.  .  .'    To  the  creak 
Of  his  footfall,  she  turned,  and  faced  him,  and 

knew,  and  ere  he  could  speak, 
—Lost  clients  meant  fines  from  die  Alte,  or  worse 

—she  had  clutched  him,  and  held 
Till  the  frayed  silk  ripped  at  his  shoulder.     She 
begged,  she  implored,  she  compelled, 
16 


"Tid'apa" 

She  wept,  she  caressed,  and  cajoled  him,  clung 

tight  as  a  drowning  one  clings: 
And  her  words  were  the  words  of  a  harlot,  she 

offered  unnameable  things. 
The  words  were  the  words  of  the  harlot,  but  the 

voice  on  her  quivering  lips 
Was  the  voice  of  the  prisoner  in  torment;  stark 

fear  in  it,  fear  of  the  whips. 
"Stop  here?    Yes,  I'd  stop,  if  you  liked  me." 

"Je  t'aime"  she  sobbed,  "only — stay. 
Je  t'aime.  See,  I  tell  you  I  love  you.  Oh,  please, 

please  don't  go  away!" 

Loosed  hair  rippled  fragrance  about  him,  he  car- 
ried her  down  to  her  room: 
Perched  sideways,  short-frocked,  on  the  mattress, 

he  thought  her  a  child  in  the  gloom. 
(Pretty  nurseries,  aren't  they?  where  the  lizard 

runs  on  the  wall, 
And  the  rat  on  the  worn-out  matting;  where  the 

louse  and  the  cockroach  crawl; 
Where  the  lean  mosquito  buzzes,  and  the  torpid 

Kling  boy's  snore 
Drones  loud  to  the  heat-waked  sleeper  through  the 

fanlight  over  her  door.) 
"You  can't  fool  me,  you  know,  Julie.    If  you  liked 

me,  only  a  damn, 

17 


Tid'apa" 


I'd  stay  like  a  shot.    Do  you  like  me?    The  love 

you  talk  of's  a  sham; 
And  you  loathe  me,  loathe  me  like  poison.  Come, 

tell  me  now — don't  be  afraid— 
Would  you  rather  I  paid  you,  and  vanished;  or 

paid  you — and  stayed?" 
She  looked  at  him,  laughed,  leaned  forward,  and 

flung  him  his  answer  pat: 
"I  know,  though  I'm  young  to  the  business,  men 

don't  treat  women  like  that." 
"All  rules  have  exceptions,  Julie;  and  it's  nine 

to  four  that  I'm  tight; 

But  here  are  your  thirty  dollars.     Don't  thank 
me,  kiddie.    Good  night." 


18 


§  III 

"Tea,    Master."     The   glued   eyes   opened.     Ah 
Wong's  face  grinned  at  him,  blank, 

Through  the  gap  in  the  parted  curtains.     "Heap 
late."    He  cursed  him,  and  drank. 

'Blind,  blind  to  the  wide.'    It  was  shaky,  his  hand 
on  the  dipper-bar, 

As  the  water  slopped  over,  gurgling,  from  its  Ali- 
baba jar. 

There   was   work   that   morning — confound    it — 
work,  letters  and  order-sheets: 

For  mails  close,  and  firms  wait  indents,  in  spite 
of  Cinnabar  Streets. 

How  the  blurred  keys  slipped  to  the  finger!    "Ten 
cases  of  Number  Three, 

"Red  Seal.    To  be  shipped  twice  monthly.     Cash 
Glasgow.    Net  F.O.B. 

"Ten  cases  of  Purple  Capsule.  .  .  ."    To  the  type- 
bars'  rattle  and  tap, 

The  man  and  the  woman  in  Jimmy  fought-over 
the  night's  mishap. 

19 


"Tid'apa" 

'You  ought  to  do  something  to  help  her,'  cried  the 

voice  of  his  woman-heart; 
But  the  man-mind  jeered  in  rejoinder,  'You  fool, 

she's  only  a  tart.' 
Came  tiffin.    His  mail  was  finished.    Legs  wide  on 

the  strutted  chair, 
He  rested;  but  might  not  slumber:  for  the  picture 

of  her,  in  despair, — 
Dark  eyes  brimming  tears,  loosened  tresses,  pale 

fingers  clenched  on  his  sleeve, — 
Rose  up   on   the   shimmering  skyline   to   banish 

sleep's  craved  reprieve. 
Day  waned  with  his  indecision,  while  he  lounged 

at  the  <M.  &  O.' 

Until  gray-blue  hills  in  the  distance  and  green- 
blue  waters  below 
Grew  one  in  the  azure  twilight;  till  the  Love-star's 

carcanet 
Gleamed  clear  on  the  hushed  horizon  where  the 

blent  blue  velvets  met; 
And  out  from  the  darkling  leafage — ghost-harpies 

of  hawks  long-slain — 

Slow-flapping  their  sable  pinions,  swept  the  flying- 
foxes'  chain.  .  .  . 
Should  he  make  an  end,  and  forget  her,  or  go  back 

to  Rose's  again? 

20 


Ere  he  clambered  the  creaking  staircase,  he  could 

hear,  to  a  ragtime's  beat, 
Sharp  clapping  of  hands,  and  laughter,  and  the 

scuffle  of  moving  feet. 
Men  swarmed  that  evening  at  Rose's.     Already, 

the  air  was  foul 

With  reek  of  their  smoke.    As  he  entered,  a  drunk- 
ard flung  him  a  scowl. 
A  boy,  a  stranger,  was  playing.    They  had  rolled 

back  the  dusty  rugs, 
And  were  dancing  one-steps  and  two-steps  and 

tangos  and  bunny-hugs — 

Clare  with  them.    But  what  of  Julie?  'It  was  over- 
early  for  trade, 

Yet  with  house  so  full,  could  it  be  that ' 

The  thought  stabbed  keen  as  a  blade. 
"Your  vife  she  go  out  in  de  rickshaw.   Chust  time 

for  vun  leetle  smoke, 

And  vun  visky-tansan,  Chimmy."    How  die  Alte 
leered  as  she  spoke! 
21 


"Tid'apa" 


How  he  hated  her,  and  her  "Chimmy,"  her  leering, 

trafficking  face, 
And  the  silly  songs,  and  the  music,  and  Clare,  and 

the  whole  damn  place: 
It  was  tawdry — to-night  he  knew  it:  the  unclean 

daubs  on  the  wall; 
Yon  full-fed  man  in  the  corner,  wine-ripe  for  a 

kiss  or  a  brawl; 
The  reek,  and  the  reeling  couples:  'Good  God, 

how  he  hated  it  all! 
This   was   Julie's   life.'  .  .  .  Was   he   barmy,    a 

youngster,  fresh  from  his  school?' 
'Your    chippy   was    always    your    chippy.'      He 

cursed  himself  for  a  fool. 
A  pert  face  peeped  from  the  chickstrings ;  and  a 

pleased  glance  smiled  to  his  own. 
But  ere  he  could  rise  to  claim  her,  as  the  wild  dog 

leaps  for  the  bone, 
Or  the  goshawk  swoops  on  the  partridge  when  the 

huddled  cheepers  rise, 
The  wine-ripe  man  in  the  corner  had  spotted  his 

tender  prize, 
Pounced,  grappled,  but  scarcely  held  her:  fists 

doubled,  eyes  murder-red, 
"Mine,  mine  for  to-night,"  flared  Jimmy.     And 

the  man  saw  death  there — and  fled. 
22 


"Tid'apa" 

He  felt,  as  his  arms  went  round  her,  how  the  young 

breasts  fluttered  and  fell. 
"My  car  is  waiting." 

"Mais,  Madame?" 

"Die  Alte  can  go  to  Hell." 


With   a  sputter,   the  engines   started;   the   gears 

clicked  home;  and  the  car 
Crawled  out  from  the  crowded  streetways  where 

the  passion-shambles  are: 
Crawled    out,    through    the    jostling    rickshaws, 

through  the  soiled,  seethed  heart  of  the  town, 
Where  signs  gleamed  gold  in  the  flarelights,  and 

the  faces,  yellow  and  brown, 
Grinned  void  in  the  glare  and  vanished :  crawled 

free,  took  speed  and  shot  on : 
Purred  out  from  dazzle  to  darkness;  till  the  last 

light-flicker  was  gone, 
Till  they  were  alone  with  the  fireflies,  and  the  soft 

night  gloom,  and  the  trees, 
And  the  white  road  swirling  past  them  to  the  rush 

of  the  upland  breeze: 
Alone,  with  his  arms  about  her,  and  her  tired  head 

drooped  on  his  breast, 

As  a  child,  held  close  by  her  father,  droops  play- 
time-weary to  rest. 

24 


"Tid'apa" 

And  the  car  purred  out  past  the  palm-trees  to  a 

dim,  green  jungle-plain.  .  .  . 
Warm  woodlands  and  wax-white  blossoms,  dew- 
kissed  of  the  evening  rain, 
Breathed   incense,   whispering   to   them,   as   they 

strolled  to  the  culvert-bridge. 
Blue-dark  against  star-strown  turquoise,  rose  the 

ramparts  of  Lallong  Ridge; 

And  high  o'er  those  frowned  embrazures,  blank- 
burnished,  silver-bright, 
Trailed  clouds  and  paled  star-beams  to  guard  her, 

sailed  the  waxing  orb  of  the  night. 
Green-dark  to  the  rampart-bases,  save  where,  like 

a  wild  beast's  eye, 
One  red  light  glowered  and  glimmered  in  the 

shadow-tracery, 
Stretched  jungle.     Leaves,   palm-fronds  rustled; 

and  the  beat  of  a  native  drum 
Throbbed  bass  to  the  marsh  frog's  treble,  and  the 

shrilled  cicada-hum. 
But  the  woman  was  utterly  lonely,  and  she  yearned 

for  the  light,  bright  ways, 
For  the  glitter,  the  glare,  and  the  glamour  of  lost 

Parisian  days; 
For  the  work-room  chaff,  and  the  chatter,  and  the 

timbre  of  her  mother-tongue, 
25 


t  ( 


Tid'apa" 


For  the  crowds  and  the  known,  home  faces.    It  is 

evil  work  to  be  young, 
To  be  young,  and  already  broken: — they  fracture 

where  true  steels  bend, 
Your  weaker,  less-tempered  alloys.    And  the  man 

seemed  almost  a  friend.  .  .  . 
A  friend!    Were  there  friends,  in  Lallong?    Lust, 

passion,  hate,  she  had  known; 
Not  friendship,  sympathy.  .  Coward.  .  She  must, 

fight  her  battles  alone, 
Nor  whimper  for  useless  allies.  .  Yet,  could  she 

but  voice  it,  her  pain.  . 
Why  not?     He  was  kind,  and  a  stranger.  .  She 

would  never  see  him  again! 

It  was  old,  the  story  she  told  him,  as  old  as  the 

horse-leech  breed, — 
The  tale  of  the  lover  who  promised;  the  lover, 

helped  in  his  need 
With  money  and  more  than  money;   the  lover 

whose  lips  were  a  lie; 
And  the  choice  of  selling  her  body  or  watching 

the  starved  babe  die. 
"But  it  did  die,  poor  mite.     I  was  heartbroken, 

crazy.    The  shops  were  slack, 
26 


"Tid'apa" 

No    hat-hands    wanted,    no    dress-hands — Poiret 

would  have  taken  me  back 
In  a  month,  two  months.  .  And  my  parents?     I 

couldn't  face  mother;  she  knew 
Of  my  savings,  would  ask,  cross-question.  .  But 

what  are  my  troubles  to  you? 
I'm  very  mean  to  be  crying  when  you've  taken  me 

out  like  this, 
And  been  ever  so  good.     Do  forgive  me.     Let's 

laugh,  and  forget  it,  and  kiss." 
Was  it  love  that  woke  in  you,  Jimmy?  or  pity?  or 

just  the  desire 
(Just  peacock-decency,  Jimmy?)  of  picking  a  rose 

from  the  mire? 
"How  long  have  I  been  with  die  Alte?    Why,  it 

seems  like  a  century. 
How  long?    Three — four — six  weeks  to-morrow. 

Six  weeks,  and  it's  killing  me! 
I  can't  sleep.    Such  a  heat,  and  no  punkahs.    All 

night,  I  can  feel  my  heart 
Throb,  throbbing  away  my  life-blood."     Speech 

choked  her. 

A  bullock-cart 
Creaked   past  them,   out  of   the   shadows — dark 

beasts  against  moon-bright  road, 
27 


"Tid'apa" 


Lit   lanterns   a-swing   from   the   palm-tilt,    tired 

driver  asleep  on  his  goad. 
"Do  you  ask  what  brought  me  to  Lallong?    What 

lures  us  all  to  the  East, 
You  men,  and  us  others,  but  money?     It  doesn't 

pay  to  be  triste, 
And  they  didn't  want  me,  in  Paris.    One  night,  at 

the  Bar  Palmyre, 
I  met  a  woman,  a  Yankee.     She  had  been  in  the 

East — not  here, 
But  in  China.    Such  tales,  she  told  me,  of  the  easy 

life  she  had  led. 
And  the  prices!     One  worked  for  a  season,  and 

came  back,  dowered,  to  be  wed. 

0  Mon  Dieu,  how  I  wish  I  were  married.    I  might 

have  been  married,  once: 

But  I  didn't  love,  and  I  wouldn't.     Not  love! 
Sacre  nom,  what  a  dunce!  .  . 

1  booked  my  passage  next  morning.  .  They  were 

all  so  nice  on  the  ship, 
Doctor,  and  purser,  and  captain.     I  shall  never 

forget  it,  that  trip ; 
Port  Said  with  the  Arabs  coaling,  and  Aden,  so 

barren,  so  sad, 
And  Colombo,  dear  green  Colombo.  .  I  wasn't 

meant  to  be  bad, 

28 


"Tid'apa" 

But  life  isn't  simple — for  women.  .  Then,  here: 

we  stopped  for  the  day; 

So  I  landed;  hired  me  a  rickshaw.    Madame  in- 
duced me  to  stay. 
She  was  up  at  her  window,  watching,  as  we  drove 

through  Cinnabar  Street; 
She  beckoned;  we  stopped;  and  I  entered.     She 

gave  me  to  drink  and  to  eat; 
She  offered  me  board  and  lodging,  and  half  of  all 

I  could  earn — 
So  I  fetched  my  trunks  from  the  steamer  .  .  .  and 

now,  I  shall  never  return. 
There,  that's  my  poor  little  story:  and  it's  no  use 

crying,  no  use; 
For  I've  nothing  on  earth  to  console  me — not  even 

one  good  excuse." 
Charged    silence:    shy    schoolgirl-kisses — just    a 

quiver  of  pleading  lips 
That  are  so,  so  weary  of  passion:  and,  bright  as 

the  rain-drop  drips 
From  the  frangipanni  blossom  at  the  turn  of  our 

changeless  year, 
Pearl-bright  under  purple  eyelids  the  unshed  dew 

of  a  tear. 
Vain  gods  of  unbiassed  judgment,  that  we  worship 

when  noon-day's  light 
29 


"Tid'apa" 

Falls  pale  on  your  court-room  altars, — shall  you 

order  Malaya's  night? 
He  had  lived  as  a  man  lives,  taken  all  that  which 

a  man  may  take 
From  the  yielding  trees  in  the  garden;  and  jeered 

at  the  baffled  snake. 
Could  such  common   fruit  be  forbidden?     The 

thought-train  sputtered,  and  died. 
Was  it  only  the  one  frail  sister  who  wept  to-night 

at  his  side, 
Or  the  myriad  hopeless  others,  man's  hard-eyed 

victims  of  lust- 
Ensnared  souls  bartered  for  passion,  spoiled  bodies 

swapped  for  a  crust — 
Who  raised  limp  hands  to  implore  him?  ...  Or 

was  this  the  finger  of  fate; 
Could  it  be  that  here  was  the  woman,  predestined, 

his  dreamed-of  mate? 
Tid'apa — the  kid  was  a  white  girl,   alone,   in  a 

brown  man's  land : 
It  was  up  to  him,  as  a  white  man,  to  lend  her  a 

helping  hand. 
"Stop  crying,  and  listen,  Julie.     If  a  fellow  gave 

you  the  chance 
Of  getting  away  from  Lallong  and  starting,  afresh, 

in  France, 

30 


"Tid'apa" 

Would  you  take  it,  Julie?    And  could  you?" 

"Would  I  take  it?    You  are  a  man, 
Yet  you  know  what  our  life  means  at  Rose's,  the 

horror  of  it,  the  ban 
Between  us  and  your  sneering  memsahibs,  the  risks 

we  run,  and  the  mask 
We  must  wear  for  each  drunkard's  pleasure.    All 

this  you  know.    And  you  ask 
Would  I  take  the  chance  if  I  got  it!" 

"Yes ;  but  could  you?    How  would  you  live, 
Over  there,  on  your  own,  in  Paris?    Let's  say  that 

I  were  to  give.  .  .  ." 
"You?    Give?" 

"Yes,  give  you  the  money." 

Incredulous,  wide-eyed,  mute; 
As  a  lean  cur,  thrashed  from  a  puppy  by  some  lout- 
ish master-brute, 
Will  wince  to  a  stranger's  petting;  she  heard — but 

belief  was  numb 
With  fear,  with  the  wounds,  and  the  heartache  of 

a  youth-long  martyrdom. 
"I  meant  what  I  said.     Are  you  willing?"     He 

sensed  her  grasp  it,  and  thrill. 
Dark  head  jerked  free  from  his  shoulder:  remote 

and  suspicion-chill, 


"Tid'apa" 


Those    veiled    orbs    probed    him    in    judgment, 

weighed,  wavered ;  and  kindled  afresh 
With  the  spark  of  a  hope  long-clinkered.     Vain 

hope — for  the  leper  flesh 
Of  the  harlot  may  not  be  cleansed — and  she  knew 

it  vain;  yet  the  high, 
Clean  joy  of  it  surged  and  stammered  through  the 

banter  of  her  reply: 
"You,  you're  mad.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  in  deadly  earnest,  I  swear  to  you.  Yes  or  No? 
You  must  give  me  your  answer,  Julie.  The  money's 

up.    Will  you  go?" 
Hands  locked  on  her  lap,  brows  crinkled  and  tense 

to  the  stress  of  her  thought, 
Begged  maiden  you  might  have  deemed  her,  but 

never  one  of  the  bought — 
Begged  maiden  with  pleading  lover.     No  drum 

throbbed  now.    Not  a  flower, 
Not  a  leaf,  not  a  palm-frond  rustled.    Long  since, 

had  the  one  red  glower 
Gone  black  in  the  jungle-shadows.    Etched  sepias 

and  silver-grays, 
Hushed,   breezeless,   the  spent  plain  languished, 

a-dream  in  the  pale  moonrays: 
Lulled,  even  the  marsh-frog  music  and  the  loud 

cicada-shrill. 

32 


"Tid'apa" 

All  nature  seemed  waiting,  silent,  on  the  voice  of  a 

woman's  will. 
"Ah,  mais  non,  mats  non.    Tu  es  gentil.    But  this; 

this  wouldn't  be  right." 
"Then  you  won't.    Why  not?" 
"Don't  be  angry.    Don't  spoil  it,  my  wonder-night ! 
You,  and  the  peace  you  have  given,  Ridge,  jungle, 

the  moon  on  the  plain, 
White  road,  and  white  bridge  where  we  rested — 

our  bridge,  shall  we  see  it  again? — 
Let  them  all  be  sweet  to  remember." 

"And  will  nothing  alter  your  mind?" 
"No.    Nothing!" 

"You  give  no  reasons.  ." 

"Please,  dear — you've  been  ever  so  kind, 
And  I'm  grateful,  you  know  I'm  grateful — don't 

ask  me  again !    It's  so  late. 
Will  you  drive  me  home  by  the  shore-road.  J'adore 

qa.    Rest — and  the  great, 
Deep  hush  of  the  cool  sea-spaces.  ." 

Child-limbs, — that  were  once  so  fleer, 
As  you  tripped  down  the  work-room  stair-case, 

skirts  flying,  eager,  to  meet 
The  lover  who  waited  nightly, — you  are  tired,  you 

can  scarcely  crawl 
As  far  as  those  gleaming  car-lights!  .  .  .  Does  He 

watch  when  these  sparrows  fall? 

33 


§  VI 

Have  you  pined  on  some  world-end  foreshore 
when  the  sea-lanes  call  you  home?  .  .  . 

Dulled  sapphire,  moonstone  and  gold-stone,  in  a 
faint  fringe-setting  of  foam, 

Pearl-white  'gainst  the  darkling  lustre  at  the  black- 
pearl  plinths  of  the  capes, 

The  bay  gleamed  jewelled  to  the  skyline.     Mast- 
high  o'er  the  shadow-shapes 

Of  the  shadow-ships  at  anchor,  poised  brilliants, 
the  riding  lights.  .  .  . 

Safe  ships  of  a  dream!  whither  sailing? 

As  the  uncaged  homer  flights, 

The  swift,  winged  woman-spirit  shook  free,  flashed 
pinion,  and  flew 

To  the  call  of  the  pleasure-city.     It  is  there,  just 
there  where  the  blue 

Black,  flawless,  shimmering  sky-vault,  star-span- 
gled, fire-opaline, 

Dips  sheer  to  her  prison  sea-rim.     She  can  see  it. 
Glad  arc-lamps  shine 

34 


Tid'apa' 


On  the  washed,  gray  glass  of  its  roadways ;  she  can 

hear  the  clop  of  the  hooves, 
And  the  purr  of  the  taxi-autos:  she  is  one  with  the 

crowd  that  moves, 
Refluent,  laughter-loving,  through  the  nights  that 

are  almost  days, 
Down  the  mile-long  tree-girt  boulevards.    Night 

ebbs  to  the  chill  dawn-haze, — 
Yet  she  does  not  flinch  from  the  daylight,  nor  fear 

for  the  unclean  thing, — 
She  is  young;  he  loves  her;  c'est  Paris;  new  lilac 

purples  to  Spring; 

They  have  only  this  instant  parted;  waked  swal- 
lows twitter  and  fly, 
!As  she  leans  from  her  creepered  casement  to  wave 

him  a  last  good-bye.  ... 
Had  the  man  no  share  in  her  vision?    Had  he  not 

yearned  with  the  ache 
Of  the  days  we  have  put  behind  us,  self-exile  we 

dare  not  break? 
"Go  back,  while  the  way's  yet  open."     Hands 

touched  her,  the  home-spell  broke; 
The  dream-scene  flickered  and  vanished.  Her  lorn 

soul  shuddered;  awoke. 
"Go  back." 

35 


tt 


Tid'apa 


"Don't  tempt  me !"  she  whispered.    (Oh,  the  night- 
mare aeons  ahead!) 

"Yet  you  loathe  it,  this  life  of  .  ." 

"Loathe  it?    I  would  ten  times  rather  be  dead. 

But  to  take  your  money,  deprive  you  of  little  things 
that  you  want 

So  that  /  can.  .  .  ." 

"What  nonsense,  Julie!" 

"No,  I  just  can't  take  it,  I  can't." 

"But  .  ." 

"It  isn't  as  if  you  were  rich,  dear;  die  Alte  told 
me,  she  knows. 

And  I'm  such  a  fool  about  money.  .  That's  why 
I'm  here,  I  suppose.  . 

It  was  only  the  other  Sunday,  Clare  had  to  settle 
my  fee 

With  a  client  who  .  .  .  Christ  Almighty,  is  there 
no  shame  left  in  me?" 

Star-shine,    and    shadow,    and    sea-shine — man's 
world,  beyond  all  belief 

Exquisite!  .  .  Man's  own  tortures,  despair  unend- 
ing, the  grief 

Of  one  sobless  woman-atom,  racked,  conscience- 
stricken,  adrift! 

"You  must  take  this  money,  Julie.    We'll  call  it  a 
loan,  not  a  gift — 

36 


"Tid'apa" 


A  loan  to  be  paid  at  your  leisure." 

The  full  home-vision  was  gone, 
But  her  gaze  still  lingered  seaward  where  the 

beckoning  mastlights  shone, 
And  her  soul  still  fluttered  for  freedom. 

"The  money  is  mine  to  lend, 
Though  Madame  does  think  me  a  pauper.     To 

borrow,  once,  from  a  friend- 
Is  that  such  an  awful  crime,  child?" 

"You  will  trust  me,  knowing  me  bad — 
A  prostitute?" 
"Trust  you?    Always!    If  you  only  guessed  just 

how  glad 
It  would  make  me  to  know  I  had  helped  you. 

When  I  think  of  my  own  career, 
Of  the  chances  I've  had — yes — and  wasted;  and 

of  you  with  no  chance.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear, 
Don't  be  foolish;  life  isn't  just  money.  .  .  ." 

He  could  scarcely  hear  it,  her  low 
"As  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  bless  you.    You  have  my 

promise.    I'll  go." 


37 


§  VII 

And  what  is  the  end  of  my  story?    Midsummer? 

the  long  straight  street 

Of  some  French  provincial  township,  green-shut- 
tered 'gainst  noonday's  heat? 
And  a  stranger,  an  English  stranger?  and  a  gamin 

pointing  the  way 
To  the  hat-shop  of  MamVlle  Julie  in  the  Rue 

Quatorze  Juillet? 
And  a  cry  of  "C'est  tot  done,  Jimmy/'  from  a  girl 

in  a  plain,  print  dress, 
Who  has  fought  her  battle,  and  conquered,  and 

waited  in  faithfulness, 
For  the  man  that  can  scarce  believe  her  the  pale, 

frail  woman  he  knew? 
And  my  lovers  at  last  united  in  their  city  of  dreams- 

come-true?  .  .  . 
.  .  .  But  our  dreams  come  true  so  seldom — to  the 

drifting  souls  and  the  weak, 
Never! 

What  does  it  matter? 

38 


"Tid'apa" 

Let  us  hide  this  thing  from  our  sleek, 
Incurious  marrying-women.     Let  us  feed  them 

some  half-proved  tale 
Of  an  Army  Officer's  daughter,  trapped,  bound, 

and  offered  for  sale. 
Then  let  them  read  in  our  news-rags  (real  pimps, 

that  pander  to  cash!) 
How  we  stamped  out  a  phantom  traffic  with  our 

threats  of  a  phantom  lash. 
We  are  stern,  we  are  moral,  and  righteous,  and 

.  .  .  skilful  at  saving  our  face 
With   cruelty-clauses,    and    health-lies,    and    this 

'safety-valve  of  the  race' — 
Our  Clares  and  our  tortured  Julies.     'They  are 

daughters  of  Ishmael; 
They  are  hardened,  forsaken  of  Heaven.'    Is  there 

any  torment  in  Hell, 
That  hardens?    Are  virgins  'hardened?'     Ere  we 

gave  them  the  Judas-kiss, 
These  were  virgins  we  starved  or  made  love  us. 

We  have  crucified  them  for  this!  .  .  . 
Tid'apa,  it's  only  a  story. 

On  a  labouring,  creaking  ship, 
As   she   stumbles   from   Guardafui   through   the 
cross-wise  roll  and  the  dip 
39 


"Tid'apa" 

Of  the  South  monsoon's  tail-fury;  in  the  hospital- 
cabin,  abaft, 

Propped  patient  and  weary  doctor.     Caged  fan- 
blades  shrill,  as  they  waft 

The  damp,  hot,  sea-staled  airgusts  to  the  man  who 
must  fight  each  breath. 

He  has  hoisted  on  livid  cheekbones  the  grim,  blue 
Peter  of  death. 

Ice  drips  from  those  bandaged  temples.    Twitched 
fingers  fumble  and  grope, 

Smoke-brown,  on  the  wrinkled  sheeting.    There  is 
neither  solace  nor  hope 

Nor  peace  in  this  lime-washed  death-trap.    Loud 
bottles  jar  in  the  rack, 

Tilt,  clink  as  she  rolls  to  leeward,  right,  clink  as 
she  lurches  back, 

Tilt,  clink  again  as  she  pitches.    The  bunk-springs 
jiggle  and  grate. 

A  door-catch   raps  on  the  woodwork.     From  a 
strained  expansion-plate, 

Groans  answer  to  wave-thud's  tremor  on  the  sod- 
den hatchways  below. 

Cramp-crouched  on  his  rocking  camp-chair,  tired- 
eyed  in  the  bed-lamp's  glow, — 

Two  days  and  two  nights  has  he  vigiled — the  doc- 
tor dozes  and  blinks. 
40 


"Tid'apa" 

'How  long  can  the  heart-valves  stand  it?  his  sys- 
tem's rotten  with  drinks : 
And  diplococcus  pneumonia.  .  .  .' 

A  sudden  tremor  1    'A  start! 
Bolt  upright,  eyes  staring,  arms  rigid,  slack  blued 

lips  trembling  apart, 
The  patient  struggles  for  utterance. 

"Ah  Wong,  Ah  Wong,  what  time  train?  .  .  . 
Blue  sketch-plans — one  of  them's  missing — not  I, 

Sir  Edward.  .  .  .  Rain,  rain, 
And  the  rain's  all  blood,  Julie's  life-blood — I  must 

leave  Lallong  to-night — 
You'll  see  to  her,  won't  you,  padre? — I'll  post  the 

cash  when  you  write.  .  .  . 
James     Sanders — that's     from     the     parson — my 

name's  not  Sanders,  you  know, 
It's  .  .  .  Curse  her,  she  won't — won't  chuck  it — 

she  promised,  promised  to  go — 
My  Julie,  still  there,  in  that  hell-shop.  .  .  .  White 

rabbits — the  pit's  all  slime — 
No  ropes — they're  climbing  and  climbing,  but  the 

pitwalls  slide  as  they  climb— 
Down,    down,    down — look,    bodies,    twitching — 

black  shapes,  black  shapes  in  the  flame — 
The  snakes,  the  snakes!  .  .  ." 
Gasping  silence.    Arms  crumble.    Tottering  frame 


"Tid'apa" 

Rocks;  sways;  recovers;  collapses.  "You  will  bless 

— you  promise  me.    Lies!  .  .  ." 
"No  hope  when  they've  once  gone  under." 

Death  glazes  those  staring  eyes. 


42 


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